Christmas in the Country
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Endgame". Boyd persuades Grace to spend Christmas with him away from London. Requested by Scription Addict. A little festive fun and fluff to warm your bones. T for language and... you know. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N:**_ I know it's a bit early for Christmas, but this one was requested by Scription Addict,_  
><em>who said as long as there was mistletoe and wine I could write whatever I wanted!<em>

**Dedication:**_ for Scription Addict, the Olympic Hugging Team and anyone who loves a bit of B/G fluff._

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><p><strong>Christmas in the Country<strong>

by Joodiff

* * *

><p>Ultimately, his argument is so uncharacteristically reasonable that eventually Grace finds herself agreeing before actually giving the matter all the thought it probably deserves. Of course, his stubbornness has a lot to do with it, too – Peter Boyd isn't the sort of man who ever just makes a casual suggestion and leaves it at that, and he pursues the matter doggedly over the course of several days. Still, after so many years' acquaintance, she tends to find his persistence more endearing than infuriating. It's taken the better part of a decade and some truly spectacular differences of opinion, but in very many ways they have grown into each other. He's learned to at least think about thinking before he speaks, and she's learned to give him the benefit of the doubt – sometimes, in both cases. Time has knocked a lot of the sharper edges off their friendship, brought them to a level of mutual understanding that enables him to make the proposal and allows Grace to accept it.<p>

It's Christmas Eve, and because, like a true taskmaster, he's kept everyone at their desks until lunchtime, it's getting dark before they finally cross the border from Surrey into Hampshire. It doesn't escape her notice that Boyd races the Audi down the outside lane of the A3 with a boisterous sort of enthusiasm that's probably not altogether seemly for a man of his age. Sadly, Grace suspects it's more the opportunity to push the car a little harder than he's usually able to do than the prospect of the next couple of days that's responsible for his poorly-disguised glee. Big toys for big boys, and she knows better than most how fond Boyd is of big toys. That's why his own car is a stupidly impractical classic roadster, and why the CCU has more toys and gadgets than it's ever likely to need.

Casually, she says, "It's been years since I spent Christmas anywhere but London."

Boyd shoots her a sideways glance. "Hindhead isn't exactly exotic foreign climes, you know, Grace."

Grace shrugs. "I don't care; it's just nice to do something different for a change."

"And that's why it took me three days to persuade you, is it?"

"I was playing hard to get, Boyd."

"No change there, then."

She can't help chuckling at the distinctly mocking note in his voice, and it pleases her immeasurably when he grins in response. There are times when she feels distinctly sentimental about their friendship. This is one of those times.

-oOo-

They negotiate a minor labyrinth of dark, narrow and tree-lined lanes before Boyd finally slows the Audi and executes a smooth left turn that doesn't prepare Grace at all for the roughness of the short, pot-holed track ahead. Fortunately, she doesn't suffer for long, because the headlights quickly pick out a low, slate-roofed stone building tucked neatly between a small copse of trees and what seems to be a considerable acreage of fields. No lights anywhere to be seen, no sign of any other evidence of human habitation. Raising her eyebrows, she says unnecessarily, "It's a barn conversion."

"The bane of rural England," Boyd agrees bringing the car to a gentle halt. "One day the whole of the Home Counties will turn into one giant barn conversion and you won't be able to move for disenfranchised farmers."

"You're such a cynic, Boyd."

"I am," he agrees, fumbling in his pocket and finally producing a set of keys. "Here, go and do the honours while I risk a bloody hernia wrestling with your luggage."

Grace doesn't rise to the gibe. It's far too early to start squabbling, no matter how much they both tend to enjoy it. Sometimes he reminds her strongly of the exasperating younger brother she's never had. Getting out of the car, she approaches the building with genuine curiosity, keen to see where she'll be spending the next few days. According to the unweathered piece of slate screwed to the barn's stone wall, her temporary residence is – rather unoriginally – simply called Lowfield Barn. Unlocking the door and stepping inside, she quickly locates a light switch, and a moment later she's looking at a big, open-plan room with an old-fashioned flagstone floor and roughly-plastered walls. An agreeable room with a large fireplace, solid, no-nonsense furniture… and one of the biggest Christmas trees she's ever seen in a domestic setting. A real tree, no less, not an artificial one. A real tree decorated in a very traditional way, reminding her of the sort of idyllic old-fashioned festive pictures that often appear on good-quality Christmas cards.

She's still gazing round the room when Boyd appears next to her, loaded down with luggage – his and hers – in the manner of a faintly grumpy carthorse. Stepping aside to let him pass, she says, "I wasn't expecting a Christmas tree."

"You can't have Christmas without a tree, Grace. It wouldn't be right."

"I know, but when you rent somewhere at the last minute – "

"Ah," he says, dumping bags and cases in a small pile before turning to shut the door. "About that. I might have been just the tiniest bit economical with the truth…"

Grace sighs, a not altogether uncommon sense of impending doom spreading through her. "Oh, God…"

He laughs, apparently unworried by her sudden apprehension. "It's not that bad, trust me."

"Boyd, whenever you ask me to trust you, bad things happen. It's an incontrovertible law of nature."

"And you say I'm a cynic?" Boyd says. The grin on his face is very engaging – and a long, long way from trustworthy.

"Go on, then," Grace prompts wearily. "Tell me the worst…"

"There is no worst, Grace. Not really. It's just that I didn't exactly rent the place."

"Please don't tell me we're trespassing?"

He looks offended. "Of course not; I'm a respectable police officer. No, it's more… I sort of… own it."

Grace stares at him incredulously. "You _own_ this place? Since when?"

Boyd shrugs casually. "Since a couple of years ago. Something to do with being repressed, depressed and in denial."

She winces, still remembering that dark, bitter day far too well. For a moment she scans the room again, taking in the comfortable simplicity of the decoration and furnishings, the expensive but unpretentious fittings in the kitchen alcove, the solid shelves that hold an extremely eclectic mix of books; the handful of good-quality pictures and antiques, and yes, she can see his character reflected in the room – masculine, straight-forward; unaffected but with a gentle undertone of quiet prosperity. She says, "You're serious, aren't you?"

Boyd affects a wounded look. "You don't like it?"

"Oh, I like it," Grace says slowly. "I'm just amazed that you do…"

-oOo-

Much, much later, when she is settled on the big sofa staring at the crackling fire, a glass of wine clutched firmly in her hand, Grace finally says, "Thank you."

Boyd is lounging lazily in an equally big chair, but instead of wine he is nursing a particularly good single malt. He looks across the room at her, expression largely unreadable, but the faintest trace of amusement reflecting with the firelight in his eyes. Sounding just a touch gruff, he says, "My pleasure. I told you it was a good idea."

"You did," Grace agrees, sipping her wine. A stray thought occurs to her and she can't stop herself from laughing. At his quizzical look she says, "I could dine out on this for years, you do realise that? I could single-handedly ruin your reputation as the Met's grumpiest DSI."

"DSI Howard's far grumpier than I am," Boyd says nonchalantly. "From what I've heard he's actually cancelled Christmas altogether for everyone below the rank of Inspector. You go right ahead and do your worst, Doctor. No-one will believe you."

"Sadly true," she admits. "So come on, where's the turkey?"

"Damn, I knew I'd forgotten something."

She feigns a heavy sigh. "Beans on toast it is, then."

Languidly, he says, "Oh, I think we can do better than that. Christmas Mass at St. Mark's followed by lunch at the Coach and Horses? That do you?"

Unable to hide her complete surprise, Grace says, "Really?"

"Really."

"But you're an atheist, Boyd."

"I wouldn't actually put it quite that strongly," he says easily.

She watches him for a moment, but there's no sign that he's anything but perfectly serious. To her chagrin, Grace feels a lump forming in her throat. Trying hard to keep her voice completely level, she asks, "Why are you doing all this for me?"

She expect him to dissemble, expects flippancy at the very least, but Boyd simply shrugs. "Because you've had a bitch of a year, one way or another. Because I'm your friend and allegedly you're still supposed to be convalescing. Oh… and because, contrary to popular belief, I'm actually quite a nice guy at heart."

It might be the fault of the wine, or it might be the presence of the big Christmas tree, but Grace doesn't bother to think her reply through too carefully. She simply says, "I've known that for years, Peter."

Boyd gazes at her steadily, thoughts and feelings hidden behind an expression that is enigmatic at best. There's no hint of challenge in his look, and Grace holds it easily. Perhaps for a touch too long.

-oOo-

Sadly, there's no snow on Christmas morning, but there is a hard hoar frost that's almost as picturesque, and when they venture outside the air is so cold that it almost literally takes her breath away. A sharp, clear cold that's nothing like the damp chilliness Grace is used to in London. Part of her is sneakily glad about the predictable lack of snow – she most definitely wouldn't put it past her companion to instantly regress back to childhood and start pelting her with snowballs. She can easily imagine the little boy he once was – an unholy terror with an angelic smile. No change there, then.

Boyd nudges her gently with his shoulder. "Better than spending Christmas morning sitting on your own listening to Radio Four?"

"You don't know I was going to be sitting on my own," Grace tells him haughtily as she arranges her scarf more warmly around her neck.

"Touché. Let me guess, you were going to invite one of your elderly and distinguished gentlemen friends round for a nice glass of sherry and a mince pie?"

In response she says snidely, "Whilst on the other side of the river you struggled with a hangover and tried to remember the name of the young blonde you woke up with?"

Boyd simply grins. "Put your claws away, Grace; it's Christmas and we're officially under a flag of truce for the duration."

"But you're not denying the presence of the blonde?"

He shrugs his broad shoulders. "Blonde, brunette, redhead, it really doesn't matter – you can't berate me for a hypothesis of your own making."

It's her turn to smile. "Oh, I think I can. Leopards don't change their spots."

"Yeah, well I'm not a bloody leopard am I?"

It's just too good an opportunity to miss. She says quickly, "That's true. Leopards are beautiful, graceful creatures. You're more of a clumsy, bad-tempered bear."

Boyd looks sideways at her. "Hilarious, Grace. Remind me… why am I doing this?"

"Must be love," Grace says glibly, and realises far too late that she has strayed across a boundary. There are some words that remain strictly taboo, no matter how flippantly used. The statement falls loudly and clearly into the crisp winter silence and she cringes instantly in complete mortification.

But Boyd's reaction surprises her. He doesn't bridle, doesn't look embarrassed; he just gives her another long, enigmatic look and says, "It's a possibility."

They walk to the church in the village, the frost crunching under their feet, their breath leaving dense clouds in the air, and any sudden suggestion of awkwardness between them is firmly held at bay by the familiar presence of gentle, well-practised banter.

-oOo-

It might be somewhat reprehensible, but it's the village's pub rather than its church that actually speaks loudest to Grace of the kind of traditional Christmas that she's always imagined but never actually experienced. Huge logs burning in a great fireplace, holly bristling from every possible nook and cranny, the smell of spicy mulled wine, the sound of exuberant laughter and chatter. Christmas as it should be, but somehow never is. Mince pies and carols on the radio. No plastic reindeer antlers, no drunken teenagers, just bonhomie and good-natured jostling at the bar by men in big sweaters and tweed jackets.

They seem to know Boyd in the pub. Not well, maybe, but several people stop to exchange pleasantries with him and with her by extension, and Grace quickly forms the impression that they either don't know what he does for a living or they simply don't care. She's never heard his first name used so often, nor has she ever seen him so wryly affable in company. Then, she's rarely seen him mixing with anyone who isn't part of their tight inner circle of work colleagues, and with them he is always a little guarded, even on social occasions. It strikes her abruptly that even though she's known him so well for so long, this may very well be the first time she's seen him so completely unguarded. It also strikes her that she likes what she sees, and after her earlier accidental gaffe, that's a thought she's not too keen to dwell on.

The ebb and flow of the festive crowd slowly and subtly pushes them further and further in the direction of the blazing fire. Grace doesn't really notice, not until she realises that they're suddenly close enough to it for Boyd to lean an insouciant elbow on the deep mantelpiece, and close enough together for him to need to look down at her as he asks, "All right?"

"Yes," she says, and it's the absolute truth. She is all right. More than all right. She is happy. It may be a transient sort of happiness, but that doesn't matter. She realises there's a slight smile quirking his lips, one that's just as clear in his eyes, and when she frowns at him in query, he jerks his head and she looks up instinctively. Green leaves on spidery green stems, white berries. Mistletoe. Predictably.

More flustered than she cares to admit even to herself, Grace looks quickly back at him, and yes, the slight smile has become a definite grin – breath-taking in its mischievous purity. She knows. Worse, he knows she knows; she can tell that simply from the way the grin becomes so predatory. They both know. He's going to kiss her, and she's going to let him – and what could happen subsequently is anyone's guess.

Sometimes there's no arguing with the inevitable. Trying for humour, Grace asks, "Do I need to brace myself?"

"Depends on how traumatised you think you're likely to be," he tells her smoothly.

Grace sees – very clearly – the glint in his eyes. So dark, those eyes, and so expressive. She sees amusement there, and something else, something that causes a sudden, uneven spike in her breathing. Attraction; desire. Something that's always been there between them, right from the start – unacknowledged but undeniable. A dangerous thing, one that's never been allowed to progress beyond the sharp spark that can spontaneously arc between them when least expected. A thing that's almost certainly doubly dangerous without the constraints imposed by professional propriety.

She doesn't care. She isn't sure why, but she doesn't care. Perhaps she's tired of the games and of all the flirtatious banter that never goes anywhere. Perhaps she is just seeing possibilities in him that she's never really imagined. Perhaps it's just the wine and the festive spirit. Whatever the reason, Grace suddenly doesn't care what they should or shouldn't be doing. All she knows is that it's Christmas and she's standing under a sprig of mistletoe looking up at a remarkably handsome man, one she's always been powerfully attracted to. And said man is closing the gap between them with a surprisingly earnest look on his face.

…It's Christmas Day and the drink is flowing freely. No-one in the crowded pub seems to notice that the kiss the couple under the mistletoe are sharing isn't exactly of the fleeting, seasonal variety. Or if they do, they don't care enough to pass comment.

-oOo-

Over lunch – traditional Christmas fare piled far too high on very big plates – Grace returns to the fascinating question of her companion's unexpected foray into the property market. Halfway through the conversation, she says, "I still don't understand why. Not really."

"Spur of the moment thing," Boyd tells her with a shrug. "Friend of a friend owns the farm. He was converting the place with a view to giving it to his daughter, but she got married and moved abroad. I suppose he just lost interest in the project after that. I came down, had a look at the place and made him an offer."

"That's how people buy cars, not houses," Grace points out with a roll of her eyes. "How on earth did you afford it?"

"C'mon, Grace, I earn more than eighty grand a year and I stopped paying maintenance to Mary years ago. It wasn't exactly difficult to get a mortgage."

"Oh, God, it gets worse. You took out a second mortgage, at your age?"

"'At my age'? Thanks for that," Boyd says. Again, he shrugs. "Maybe I just needed something to get me away from work, away from London. All that plastering – it was very therapeutic."

"You did all that yourself? Dear Lord, I wish I'd known. I would have paid good money to watch."

"I bet. There were quite a few…" he lets the words trail away.

"Tantrums?" Grace suggests with a smile. "Oh, I can imagine. So now you have a weekend retreat, hmm? Actually, I'm pleased. Anything that helps you achieve a better balance between your working life and your private life is a good thing."

"See? I knew you'd come round to the idea."

Grace wonders why her approval seems to be so important to him. Curious, she asks, "Why does it matter to you what I think?"

Boyd doesn't look as if he's altogether sure himself, and his answer is surprisingly honest. He says, "I don't know. It just does."

The conversation turns naturally, heads in a different direction, and at some point as she eats and drinks and laughs, Grace realises how easy it would be to forget that they are anything but good friends. London, the Cold Case Unit, their colleagues… all of those things suddenly seem very distant and slightly surreal. As if she has, quite literally, stepped into another life altogether, one where he's just an amiable old friend and she isn't bound by all the things that prevent her just taking his hand and offering to love him unconditionally if he will just let her through the barricades.

-oOo-

"You should do something about creating a garden," Grace says as they walk up the short, rough track towards the barn.

Boyd gives her a look. "Why?"

"You just should."

"Impeccable female logic. Why on earth would I want to do that? I've got a perfectly good lawn in London I only mow twice a year, without adding to my woes. The idea is to come down here to relax, Grace. Not to chase-arse about doing things I don't like doing."

He has a point, she has to admit. Besides, it's not as if there's anyone around to complain about the wild state of the small square of land. Trees in one direction, fields and hedges in all the others. Glorious solitude. She understands what appeals to him about the place – it's small, simple and isolated. For a man weighed down with stress and responsibility, not to mention all his own inner demons, it's a tranquil oasis that offers the promise of at least a temporary respite. It might be a little trite, but Grace feels privileged that he's finally shared his quiet secret with her.

As he unlocks the door, Grace asks, "Can we open our presents now?"

"We have presents?"

Ignoring the deliberate provocation, she says, "Well, you do. And I'd better, if you know what's good for you."

Boyd looks hurt. "When have I ever failed to buy you a Christmas present?"

"Let me think. Last year – "

"That was an exception."

" – the year before that. Oh, and the one before that… Shall I go on?"

"I think you're being a little harsh, Grace."

She shakes her head, amused. "I don't. Chucking fifty quid at the nearest female member of staff on Christmas Eve and telling them to rush out and buy something for me doesn't count, Boyd."

He snorts. "Fifty quid? You should be so bloody lucky."

-oOo-

In fact, as soon as she unwraps the gift casually tossed into her lap, she knows Boyd's spent considerably more than the figure jokily bandied about. Twice, maybe three times more. Just the softness of the cashmere under her fingertips tells Grace more than she needs to know about its cost, but that's not what touches her. What touches her is the thought that's evidently gone into the gift. He hasn't gone for the easy, ostentatious option, hasn't just barrelled into some randomly-chosen shop on Oxford Street and waved his credit card at the first shiny thing to catch his eye. No, he's thought about her, about her tastes, about what she likes, and he's made an effort to buy her something that she would certainly have coveted but wouldn't have been frivolous enough to buy for herself. A very carefully-selected gift, no doubt about it. There are inferences, of course, but those inferences are subtle.

Grace looks up at him, and maybe he sees something in her expression because the faint wariness in his eyes fades and he starts to smile. And that smile carries subtle inferences of its own. Quietly, she says, "Thank you; it's lovely."

The languid, offhand reply is absolutely typical. "I thought it might stop you breaking my balls over how cold it is down in the dungeon at this time of year."

She stands up, pats his arm unselfconsciously and says again, "Thank you."

"Grace…" he says, and she hears the hesitation at the same moment she sees a look she can't quite identify pass across his face. Bewildered, she's about to question him when he abruptly continues, "It's Christmas Day, we're on our own forty miles from London and I don't know about you, but unless a mummified corpse turns up in the Queen's back garden I'm not intending on going anywhere near work until Tuesday at the earliest…"

"So?" Grace prompts him with a gentle frown. "What are you trying to say, Boyd?"

He shrugs, looks uncharacteristically helpless. "I just… can't keep doing this whole… ambiguity… thing. Not anymore. It used to be a bit of harmless fun, but now it's just… inconvenient."

"'Inconvenient'?" Grace echoes.

Boyd winces and runs a nervous, impatient hand through his hair. "Fuck. I didn't mean it like that. I mean… Oh, God. Help me out here, will you, Grace? You know exactly what I'm talking about. You and me."

Cautiously, Grace says, "I think you may have had just a little too much to drink, Boyd."

"This has nothing to do with drink, Grace. This is to do with – " he breaks off suddenly, holds his hands up. "Fine. Have it your way. Let's just open another bottle and forget it. Happy bloody Christmas."

She stares at him for a minute, trying to gauge what's beneath the simmering frustration, the sudden change in his mood. There's something about the set of his shoulders, the sullen line of his mouth. Something that speaks volumes. It's all there in the space between them – every chance they could ever take, every risk they could ever run. Unspoken, but inexorable. She looks at her coat hanging on the back of the door, and she makes a decision.

His voice follows her as she walks across the room. "Grace. Oh, come on. Don't run off, it's bloody freezing out there. I'm sorry, all right? I'm an idiot – we both know that."

"You are," she agrees over her shoulder, searching the coat pockets until her fingers close round the odd, distinctive shape. Objective successfully secured, she walks back to him. "Close your eyes."

He frowns. "What?"

"Just do it, Boyd. And hold out your hand."

With a tangible edge of suspicion, he does so. Smiling to herself as she places the object from her coat into his hand, Grace says, "Think of this as a little extra Christmas present."

Boyd opens his eyes, and the mystified look changes instantly to amusement. "Mistletoe, Grace? 'Borrowed' from the Coach and Horses, I assume? You bad girl."

"Are you going to arrest me or kiss me?" Grace challenges.

"Can't seem to remember where I left my warrant card."

"Better kiss me then, hadn't you?"

He does, with all the gentle sensuality of the earlier kiss in the pub but with a lot more intent. If the first kiss was a very deliberate tease, this is just as deliberate a promise. He isn't rough, he isn't demanding, he simply kisses her with an artless finesse that makes Grace want to literally melt into his arms. He doesn't attempt to take anything from her – he just invites her to give it, and she does, her heartbeat involuntarily increasing as together they slowly explore an entirely new territory.

-oOo-

Boyd is sitting on the stone floor, back against the sofa, head against her thigh, and she watches as he unconsciously toys with her gift to him – cuff-links, designer, titanium, one set of – and she isn't altogether surprised when he finally breaks his protracted silence with a sigh and says, "I don't know, Grace. I really don't know."

Grace has been thinking, too. She says, "All I'm saying is that it's time we were honest – with ourselves and with each other."

"It's not that easy."

"Of course it is. It's what happens next that's more difficult."

Boyd sounds melancholy as he admits, "I just don't see a way to make it work. Christ, we're quick enough to tear strips off each other at the best of times without additional… complications."

Studying the back of his head, the few remaining dark steaks in his hair almost lost amongst the grey that's turning relentlessly to silver, Grace says, "It's just a question of finding a way to keep our private and professional lives apart. And you may have provided the ideal solution."

He glances round for a second. "I have?"

"This place," Grace says simply. "It's what, an hour and a half's drive? We come down on a Friday night, we go back on Sunday night. During the week, nothing changes."

"I refuse to believe you're that naïve," Boyd replies with a shake of his head, still turning the cuff-links over and over in his hand. "I don't think you could live like that, and I'm damned sure I couldn't."

"What's the alternative?" Grace asks him quietly. "We carry on pretending that we're just colleagues who just happen to have become good friends over the years? That neither of us have ever – "

Gloomily, he says, "Yeah, all right, all right. I get the picture, Grace."

"Do you? Do you really?"

"I think so. I just don't think screwing each other at the weekend – "

"Boyd."

" – and spending the rest of the week pretending there's absolutely nothing going on is the answer."

"It's not ideal," she concedes. "But – "

"Fuck's sake," he suddenly interrupts. "What the hell are we doing? It's Christmas, we've got enough booze to float the Queen Mary, we're sitting in front of an open fire in the middle of bloody nowhere and the best thing we can think of to do is talk about why we _shouldn__'__t_ be shagging ourselves stupid? What the fuck's wrong with us?"

Despite herself, Grace can't resist a chuckle and a sardonic, "You have such a way with words, Boyd."

"I'm done with words," he says, and the speed with which he gets to his feet only serves to prove the point. "Words are your thing, not mine."

Mildly, she asks, "Are you having an alpha male moment?"

The dark eyes glint at her. "Oh, yes."

Boyd does what he always does. What he does best. He simply takes charge of the situation, and for once Grace has absolutely no inclination to argue with him over his high-handedness. Not when the wine is good, the flames are leaping in the stone hearth and his skin is so very warm and smooth under her hands. In the end he burns like the fire burns, and she glories in it, staking her claim to his body in hot kisses and caresses that make him curse and arch fiercely against her as they tumble together on the floor in a chaotic mass of cushions, rugs and various other hastily requisitioned soft-furnishings.

It's not like her occasional guilty fantasies; it's not like the dreams that sometimes weave themselves through restless nights. It's so much better… because it's magnificently real in every moment of clumsiness, passion and simple, unmitigated joy. She quickly discovers that as a lover Boyd is a contradictory mix of strength and tenderness, of roughness and gentleness, and she takes everything he gives, greedily and joyously. Even when Grace thinks she's had all of him, he somehow finds even more to give, and it's maybe then that she begins to understand that there will never be a way back. Not now. For either of them. It's deep in their blood, this thing – whatever it is – and it will run its own inevitable course for good or bad whatever they attempt to say or do.

-oOo-

"Steady," Boyd warns her, and from the tone of his voice she doesn't think he's altogether joking.

Raising her eyebrows at him, Grace says, "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Or you'll be paying my chiropractor's bill for the next six months. Get off me woman, for God's sake. Go and find me food."

Grace snorts derisively. "In your dreams, Boyd."

"I see. Alpha male isn't working for you anymore?"

"Not when it comes to domestic servitude."

Sulkily, "It's bloody Christmas."

"So?"

"Fine. I'll just do it myself, shall I?"

"I should," she tells him easily.

It's almost certainly an indulgence, but Grace can't help gazing at him as he gets to his feet and wanders across the room towards the kitchen alcove. Very tall, very naked and absolutely self-assured. Boyd is far from a young man, even if he is a few years her junior, but he carries his age well. He moves with an easy muscularity that makes her smile. A smile that becomes more of a vaguely embarrassed smirk as she notices the red marks on his back. It's been a very, very long time since she's been guilty of committing that particular sin, but the visible proof of her… enthusiasm… is quite evident. The skin isn't broken and she knows the nail marks will fade quickly, but she still finds herself momentarily caught between discomfiture and an unworthy sense of self-satisfaction. Her claim, written clearly on his skin.

"We have Christmas cake," he announces abruptly, peering into a cupboard as he absently rubs his beard.

Still eying him speculatively, she asks lazily, "We do?"

"Mm. Fortnum and Mason deliver, you know, even to the back of beyond."

"You're so bourgeois," Grace tells him, deliberately needling.

"And proud of it. I don't work like a dog just to live like a pauper."

"Capitalist."

"Damn right. Just bear in mind that when you were going on all those protest marches in your misguided youth I was one of the poor bloody coppers you were abusing."

She shakes her head. "I've never abused a police officer in my life."

"Bollocks. You abuse me all the time."

"Oh, you're so funny, Boyd," Grace says scathingly, idly helping herself to his discarded shirt and shrugging into it.

"You want some of this bourgeois cake, or not, Comrade Foley?"

"Please," she says, fastening buttons. Pausing to reflect on his unclothed state, she can't quite help adding, "Just be careful what you're doing with the knife, hmm?"

Boyd looks over his shoulder and grins at her, evidently well-aware of what she's implying. "I fully intend to be."

-oOo-

"There's a knack to it," he tells her.

"That you evidently don't possess."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Boyd says, leaning forward to flick one of the line of chestnuts off the hearth. He doesn't actually curse, so she assumes he's got away without burning his fingers. "You said you wanted a traditional Christmas, and you can't get more traditional than roast chestnuts."

"I don't think it's traditional to be roasting chestnuts naked, Boyd."

"There's certainly an element of risk involved, I'll grant you that."

Grace laughs and snuggles herself more comfortably into their impromptu nest of cushions. Christmas cake, roast chestnuts, wine… and an attractive and spectacularly naked male companion. Not exactly the way she'd envisioned the end of the afternoon and the better part of the evening, but she's not complaining. Not at all. The firelight flatters them both, and not only does it turn his skin to the colour of honey, but it softens the lines of him and picks out muscle and bone in soft shadows. She suspects she's becoming slightly fixated on the curve of his neck, the width of his shoulders.

His attention apparently all on peeling the cooling chestnut, Boyd asks, "So, can I actually sleep in my own bed tonight?"

Reaching out to run a finger lightly down his spine, Grace says, "Oh, I don't know about that. I rather liked seeing you curled up on the sofa like a dormouse."

"I'm a bloody dormouse now?" Boyd says, glancing over his shoulder at her.

"Humour me."

"Here," he says, passing her the peeled, roasted chestnut. "Don't say I never give you anything. Happy Christmas, Grace."

-oOo-

Just after midnight, Grace takes his hand and leads him to the only bedroom, the only bed. It's a gentle, tender thing they share there, an act born as much – if not more – of love as of lust. There is passion, there is heat and sweat and desire, but it's love and affection that spellbinds them both. He kisses her throat, her neck, whispers words into her ear that make her close her eyes and hold him even tighter. She runs her fingers through his hair and tells him all the things she's kept hidden for so long, and making herself so vulnerable to him only succeeds in intensifying the fiercely proprietorial look in his eyes.

Against all the odds it's Boyd who says the words first, head low, expression solemn as he tells her, "I love you."

It stuns her, humbles her. Makes her acutely aware of the responsibility resting on her shoulders – Grace knows better than anyone how much pain there is still twisting inside him, how much grief, sorrow and regret. Tough as he is, in some ways he's intensely fragile, a man who has no idea how to deal with everything that hurts him so much, a man whose searing anger is born from his acute frustration about all the things that he can't change. Almost without thinking she laces her fingers through his, says, "And I love you. We can do this, Peter. It won't be easy, but we _can_ do it."

"And the first time I lose my temper and start shouting…?"

"It won't matter."

"Easy to say."

"It won't," Grace says, pressing the gentlest of kisses against his forehead. "I know you. I know everything there is to know about you, the good and the bad. And I know however angry you get, however unreasonable you can be, there's not an ounce of deliberate cruelty in you. True?"

"True," he agrees gruffly. "Grace – "

"No more words, remember? And before you start arguing, can I remind you that we're still under that flag of truce?"

Boyd doesn't say anything, just pulls her even closer against him, and they lie in absolute silence listening to the popping of the dying embers in the next room and the December wind sighing against the barn's exterior walls. He stretches out an arm and turns off the bedside light, and the room settles into inky darkness.

Reflecting on the day, Grace eventually says softly, "Thank you for my Christmas present."

"It's just a cardigan, Grace."

Smiling up into the darkness, she says, "I wasn't talking about the cardigan…"

She feels the low, deep chuckle that comes in reply far more clearly than she hears it. He's warm and solid and real, and she curls more comfortably against him, her head nestling in the crook of his shoulder. The sense of belonging Grace feels easily outweighs any of the tiny, nagging doubts that linger. It's a fanciful notion, one she wouldn't dare share with him, but for a moment she imagines that he's her destiny, and always has been. There have been other men, other great loves, but somehow this man – this spiky, challenging, unpredictable man – fits so naturally into her life that she can't believe this is not how it was always going to be. In the end.

In a quieter way, Grace is just as obstinate as Boyd is. She will do everything she can to make this thing work, and she knows him quite well enough to know that no matter how capricious he is, how volatile and difficult, he's far, far too stubborn to give up at the first hurdle. Or the second, or the third. It will work. It has to.

"Happy Christmas, Peter," she murmurs, but the way his breathing has slowed tells her he's already asleep.

Absurdly happy in a very tranquil, placid way, Grace joins him, drifting off to sleep in his arms, oblivious to anything else, and when she dreams, she dreams of him. Of them. Of everything they have ever been and ever could be.

– _the end –_


End file.
